


Heads or tails

by sparklingice



Series: Games we play [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Biting, Blow Jobs, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Humor, Jack Needs a Hug, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Dean Winchester, Public Hand Jobs, Season/Series 13, Shower Sex, Sibling Incest, Sleeping Together, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-19 13:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklingice/pseuds/sparklingice
Summary: After Dean learns about Sam's desire to try out something kinky during sex, he's hell-bent on making it happen. This is how it goes - and how Sam chooses to return the favour.“Want you to fuck me.” He murmurs and Dean chokes on his own saliva.“Now?”Sam shrugs. “As long as you can get it up again, old man.”Dean gives him a hard stare, then shuts off the shower. “Little bitch.” He growls into Sam’s mouth and they stop talking for a while after that.





	1. Head

**Author's Note:**

> Not necessary to read Playtime first, but it doesn't hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part is going to be from Sam's POV and I'll add new tags when I post it.  
> Until then, let me know what you think of this one! :)

 

They’re going to work up to it in small steps, Dean decides promptly after their awesome game night. Piss play is close enough to his limits that the thought of it makes him squirm. There is a hint of trepidation in his excitement, sure, but that’s not a bad thing. It’s so very rare that Sam tugs him to the edge of his comfort zone (although, it’s quite a big one, he’s not too picky about sex) that it’s almost like a birthday wish come true.

He gets the ball rolling the next week, in the restroom of a gas station on their way to a case. They should get familiar with the situation first, he figures, before moving on to the real deal. As soon as Sam chooses a urinal, he sidles up to him and takes the one directly beside him. Sam frowns and turns a fraction of an inch away, trying to shield himself from Dean’s wandering eyes. He’s confused (and a little bit mad) - maybe, he thinks Dean wants to fool around in this unsanitary dump of a place.

That theory proves true when he hisses at Dean like a cat, jerking his head to the right. “Every second in here is a health risk. And there’s a trucker in that stall.” By the sounds of it, he’s also trying to, well, speed up. “Whatever you’re planning has to wait until we get home.”

“I’m just taking a leak.” Obviously. It’s totally normal that his shoulder bumps into his brother’s in the process.

He unzips his trousers and pulls his cock out while Sam’s tucking himself away and a sudden wave of performance anxiety hits him. Is Sam really going to watch him? What if seeing it changes his mind, because it’s only sexy in theory? (What if he finds Dean repelling?) Against his permission, his stomach clenches to do the exact opposite of what he wants and keeps it in. It’s starting to get awkward, especially when Sam glances down with an expectant frown, then back up at Dean’s reddening face. A few seconds tick by. The trucker in the stall turns a page in the mag he must be reading. Gradually, a smirk spreads over Sam’s face and Dean can practically hear the prostate problems joke he’s gonna say, but (thank God) the door creaks open behind them just in time.

Another trucker comes in, unkempt bushy beard covering his sweaty face, then makes an abrupt stop when he catches sight of Dean’s lecherous state. Belatedly, Dean realises that Sam’s already wearing his FBI-suit and that it might give off a certain impression of closeted businessman looking for a prostitute, examining said prostitute’s equipment. And Dean’s decidedly not the money-man in this scenario.

“We’re brothers.” He rushes to clarify before the man asks the price of his lips and mouth and whether he could join in (sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time that misunderstanding happened), because Dean would have to punch him then.

“Uh-huh.” The guy grunts, shudders and makes a beeline for the stall furthest away from them, even though he seemed to be fine with a urinal before he spotted them.

Sam elbows him, looking amused, then goes to wash his hands. “I’ll buy you some candy.” He says and exits the restroom and (naturally) that's the moment Dean’s bladder lets go.

 

 

“Dean, can I ask you something?” Jack comes up to him one morning, scuffing his shoes on the floor like a five-year-old. (Which is both older and younger than he actually is and - it’s really confusing, okay?)

Dean tosses the book on archangels back on the table with barely suppressed relief. Reading about those assholes is about as dull as it gets, he could use some distraction. “Shoot.”

“Do you think… do you think Sam would teach me how to swim?”

Both of Dean’s eyebrows arch up in surprise. “Sure. Hell, _I_ can teach you if you want.”

“You would?” Jack gives him a blinding smile.

“Yeah.” He’s a nephilim, Dean doubts it would take him more than thirty minutes to get the hang of it. And thirty minutes of not staring at these texts is thirty minutes well spent in his books. “Why, wanna go skinny dipping or something?”

“What’s skinny dipping?” Jack frowns. “It doesn’t sound like something I’d like to do.” Dean wouldn’t be so sure of that. Jumping off rocks naked and splashing into water could never get old, he thinks. Although, if Sam came too… he can be a little… _intimidating_ for inexperienced eyes. “I want to go to a beach and see what it’s like. Yesterday, I was going to search for a case and I wanted to know where else to look, so I checked your browser history.”

“Who taught you how to do that?”

“You?”

“Oh.” Point taken. Dean bows his head, smiles in acknowledgement and gestures at the kid with his index finger. “Okay. Found something for us?”

“Not really. But I did see you opened plenty of pages about something called ‘watersports’.” The air seems to freeze over suddenly and Dean finds it difficult to breathe. He’s _so_ not giving this kid the Talk. Sam can damn well take care of that, including an explanation of this little kink of his. Dean point blank refuses to discuss it with anyone who isn’t his brother.

“I was curious, so I typed it into the search bar.” Jack goes on, undisturbed. “There were lots of pictures about boats and waves and the sea. It looked fun! That’s why I want to learn swimming, so that I can play watersports with you and Sam.” Dean lets out a noise between a squeak and a cough and his face lights up in flames.

“Dean?” Jack reaches out a tentative hand to touch his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Ah, yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Peachy. I, uh, gotta go make some… pancakes. Right. Have you tried chocolate-chips yet? ‘Cause I’m telling you, kid, most awesome stuff ever.”

He jumps up from his seat and heads towards the kitchen, Jack right on his heels. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Wrong? No. Just. Let’s agree on something, okay?” Dean takes a deep breath and pulls the boy into an empty storage room. He runs a hand through his hair, then plasters on a weak smirk. (It’s not very likely to fool even a few months old nephilim, but he tries anyway.)

“Okay.”

“We should keep this swimming-beaches-watersports thing between the two of us, alright?”

“Why? I thought you and Sam tell each other everything.” Sad thing is, the boy says that with all the honest conviction in the world. He looks like he thinks Dean has a shared conscience with his brother and their thoughts come and go like bleeding (how convenient that would be).

“It’s sort of a surprise.”

Jack seems to consider that, then nods solemnly. “I won’t tell him then.”

“Good.”

 

 

“So.” Sam starts when Dean slips into his room that night. He is wearing a godawful cotton shirt with a unicorn on it that Dean bought him as a gag gift last year (it has “me so horny” written on it, he couldn’t resist) and he’s already under the covers. (He doesn’t look horny either, which is a crying shame.) “I take it we are planning ahead for that holiday you mentioned before.”

Dean slides under the blanket and snuggles - khm, _leans_ into him, getting comfy. (That shirt is damn soft, it has nothing to do with the body-warmth and the Sammy-smell enveloping him, nothing at all.) “Come again?”

“I’ve always wanted to try snorkelling.”

It takes him a moment to get it, then he closes his eyes. Busted. “Shit. I made a deal with the kid.”

“Don’t blame him, I knew something was up.” Sam chuckles. “And I bribed him with my Harry Potter book collection.”

“Geek.” Dean sighs. He knows his brother’s staring at him, can feel the prickling at his scalp where Sam’s eyes must be fixed, but he doesn’t look up. Instead, he rucks up Sam’s shirt and slides the tips of his fingers under the waistband of Sam’s boxers, brushing the downy hair on his belly. This is good. Familiar. He might be able to divert the attention if he keeps stroking the right places. (Sam is like a puppy, never could resist a belly rub.)

“Are we going to talk about it?” Sam mumbles into his hair. His chest rumbles as he speaks, almost purring under Dean’s ear.

“I’m not planning to.”

Sam taps the top of his ass. “Dean.”

“Sam.”

“You know we don’t have to do it, right? If it makes you queasy -”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then what?”

Time to step up his game. Dean reaches further down and runs his fingers along Sam’s gorgeous cock. It twitches interestedly, but it's only half-hard and that’s not enough to cloud his brother’s sharp mind. (Sam’s too damn stubborn to get his answers for that.) With a disappointed sigh, Dean pulls his hand away and rests it back on Sam’s abs. “I was checking if it’s… safe. For you.”

“You said you’ve done it before.”

“Once, Sam, once. And I didn’t care about the chick at all. I don’t even remember her name. But -”

“I’m different.”

Dean’s silent for a beat. (Yes, he is, all the different that matters.) “I don’t want you to get sick or something.”

At that, Sam raises up on his elbow (dislodging Dean’s head) to give him an incredulous look. “You do realise I’ve been swallowing your semen on a regular basis for years now.”

Dean shrugs and averts his eyes, fiddling with the hem of Sam’s sleepshirt (he wants to rest his head back on it, damnit). If Sam thinks bluntness will open some hypothetical floodgate in Dean’s concern-heavy mind, then he’s sorely mistaken. (He is the king of bluntness. Sam running his mouth about their bedroom activities won’t faze him.)

“I’m not going to drink it.” Sam tells him, slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t want - I won’t do facials either.”

“That’s fine.” Sam settles back down and pushes at the top of Dean’s head with a giant paw until Dean goes back to using his chest as a pillow. They spend a few minutes like that in silence, breathing together.

“When we do it.” Dean starts, voice little more than a croak. “Do you want me to… to talk to you?”

“Of course.” Sam laughs, perplexed.

“I’m not sure I wanna call you a slut.”

“Oh. You mean dirty talk. No, Dean.”

Sam must be lying, so as not to spook him. But Dean has been binge-watching piss porn just last night - he knows that 99% of those involve some derogatory dom-sub dirty talk. He’s not gonna lie, they have done some of that a couple dozen times, but he doesn't think it would work in this scenario. (For one, it’s usually _Sam_ talking to _him_ , making Dean do what he wants how he wants, and it’s never _that_ dirty. He has a sort of growly voice just for the sexy talk - the mere thought of it gets Dean achingly hard.) Despite his big mouth when it comes to flirting, Dean is not much of a talker himself. He prefers to think he is a silent, dangerous (dangerously hot) creature.

“As I’ve said, I just want to see you let go.”

Yeah, and Dean wants to roleplay as a wendigo. “Whatever, Sammy. Go to sleep.”

 

 

Two days later, they are staying at a motel once again with lumpy beds and a tiny bathroom (that’s the only downside of living in the Bunker - Dean misses the comfort of it like crazy). But they are blessedly alone. No ticking atomic bomb of a kid to take care of, no house guests to sneak around at night when they want to sleep together. Dean’s living his best life - greasy food, hot sex, easy case, his baby, more of the hot sex - he reckons it’s time to give Sam a treat too. So he buys himself a large bottle of water and drinks the whole thing, leaving the beer to his brother (what a waste, really), then goes to scout out the neighbourhood for a place with good pie and prays that he lasts until Sam’s nightly shower. He does, or so it seems when he steps back into their room and the water’s running, but now he’s full enough that he feels like his stomach is bloated. He shucks his clothes with a pained expression and staggers into the bathroom where Sam’s cheerfully singing to himself and washing his hair (of course, no surprise there). Dean casts a longing look at the toilet, then pulls back the ugly yellow shower curtain to step inside the stall.

Sam stops making those cat-in-heat-mating-call noises and freezes with his hands halfway to his scalp. His eyes are closed to avoid the big dollop of shampoo he must have put in his hair, because the whole thing looks like one large glob of foam. He looks ridiculous and lovely and Dean kinda wants to bone him. After he emptied his bladder, that is, because it’s starting to become a _really_ pressing matter. “That you, Dean?”

Dean grins and reaches for Sam’s hair to form spikes out of it the way he did when they were kids. “Hiya, Sammy.”

Sam slaps his hands away with an irritated huff and rinses the shampoo off as fast as he can. “What’s up with you, hm? You didn’t even try scalding me.” He says when his eyes open, referring to flushing the toilet and stealing the cold water, which Dean tries to achieve every single time his brother showers (he shrieks like a teenage girl, it’s endlessly amusing).

Since he forgot to make up a good excuse, Dean goes with Plan B instead and crowds Sam up against the wall, licking into his mouth. Sam’s wet chest rubs against his as they kiss and the friction makes his nipples harden into pointed little nubs. He’s super-desperate to go now, but he’s not sure how to navigate this. Somehow it doesn’t seem like the best idea to just do it without giving Sam a heads-up. Sam gropes his bottom, squeezing and pulling his cheeks apart like he wants in there preferably right now, but Dean’s too full to properly enjoy that single-minded passion. He can’t get his erection further than half-mast because of the agonising pressure on his bladder.

“Ah, I see. Wanna be the pitcher tonight, huh?” Sam laughs, oblivious fox-eyes crinkling at the corners, and widens his stance to pull Dean against his hips. His monster cock is on board with the idea of bottoming (actually hard, not fake-hard and begging to pee like Dean’s) and he must think Dean’s on one of his horndog sprees (not too far from the truth), because he reaches down and fondles Dean’s jewels with a gleeful expression. Dean sort of whines at that and Sam’s head snaps up, eyebrows climbing up as he takes in the awkward shuffling and bouncing show Dean has resorted to doing in order not to pee himself.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Sam’s eyes widen and he gulps, turned on, when Dean gives him a helpless look. “Do you have to -”

 _“Yes.”_ Dean hisses. God, holding it is torture. He feels like a preschooler, sitting in the back of the Impala and whining for Dad to pull over because he’s gonna die from need. Sam gives him a once-over, eyes lingering hungrily on his cock. He arches an eyebrow and grabs it again, the little shit, delighted in the whimpers Dean has no capacity to keep in anymore.

“Okay, turn around.” He smiles at last and pushes Dean’s sides until they are standing back to chest and the spray of water hits them both, cascading down Dean’s arms and stoking his barely sufferable urge. (Dean hates his brother.) Sam hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and kisses his neck. His palms press gently on Dean’s abdomen, stroking in circles. “You can go now.”

This time, Dean is loose enough that there's no trace of anxiety as he leans back into the wall of muscle behind him and lets go. “Fuck.” He gasps and it feels as though the gates of heaven are opening for him and he’s floating on a cloud of relief.

It’s so good it hurts, like lying down on the grass after a five-mile run, and he sags in Sam’s arms, ragdoll-limp. He closes his eyes and ignores the warmth trickling down his legs, concentrates on the smell of citrus shampoo instead. Sam makes appreciative sounds against his throat and mouths at the hinge of his jaw. Dean starts to deflate, the headrush slowly disappearing, but he’s still going full force and now there’s a hand on his flaccid cock, Sam's hand, holding him, and he can't for the life of him stop the flow, even though his face is already burning from shame. When Sam’s thumb slides over the head and presses against his slit for half a second, the pain-pleasure-burn of that touch wrings a stuttering cry out of Dean’s throat. He glances down and watches, powerless and vulnerable, as Sam runs his long fingers all over, despite the stream of golden liquid still leaking in a steady flow. The absolute loss of control is terrifying, especially because it’s voluntarily given up, but as Sam tightens his hold to pull and tug the last drops of it out, Dean is hit by a gush of safety and acceptance and it gets better. With one last, head-to-toe shudder, Dean finishes and sighs in satisfaction.  

“That was hot.” Sam whispers into his ear and peppers open-mouthed kisses along the side of his neck, his grip still cradling Dean’s cock. His free hand snakes up to Dean’s nipple and rubs it, his erection riding the cleft of Dean’s ass in an absent-minded kind of fashion.

Dean can’t wrap his mind around it at first, how that could have been hot (although, if it works for his brother, he’s not complaining). But then Sam moans, “God, you are so pliant”, and it dawns on him that Sam wasn’t lying when they talked about this. That it’s truly not the potential humiliation he’s into, no, he gets off on being the one who catches Dean when he lets himself fall. He gets off on Dean letting go in his arms. That Sam wants him to reach the point where he’s comfortable doing it, where he trusts Sam enough to forget all his inhibitions. It’s a heady thought, because suddenly, it has nothing to do with the motions of the kink and everything to do with Sam’s (their) all-encompassing need to be _closer._

Sam flips them around until Dean’s propped up against the wall and drops to his knees. The water’s beating on his back and shoulders now, but he takes no notice, just leans forward and wraps his lips around Dean’s limp cock and _sucks._ Arousal lights Dean aflame like greek fire catching on dry wood and he moans, head falling back against the tiles with a thunk. He is hard within seconds. Sam hums around him and starts stroking the base of his cock with one hand, lazily jerking himself off with the other. It’s sloppy and intense and Dean has no idea which one’s gonna happen to him sooner, passing out or coming down his brother’s throat. It might just be the former, though, because after a minute, Sam pulls off with a slurping sound and looks up at him with such raw need that it’s a miracle that Dean’s knees don’t buckle. He parts his lips and rubs the head of Dean’s cock over their red-moist lushness, lets the bottom one catch on the crown of it, his grip sliding up and down. The pink tip of his tongue flicks out and Dean can _see_ it lapping up the precome, swallowing as if it’s Mountain Dew.

“My God, have some mercy, Sammy.” For someone so painfully shy in other sexual situations, he sure can turn into a slut just to tease Dean to death.

Sam smiles in reply and kisses the _(really small)_ curve of Dean’s stomach that hides his (kickass) abdominal muscles. His sandpaper-stubble is going to leave red marks under Dean’s belly button, but he doesn’t seem to care. (He might even get a kick out of it, since he’s only allowed to leave his signs of ownership below the line of Dean’s shoulders.) Dean’s palms slip on the cold, wet tiles and the shower’s lukewarm at best, but Sam’s touch is hot and secure and makes the base of his spine tingle. His memory of safety from a few minutes ago slams back into Dean’s mind and he thinks, _it’ll be a fucking golden shower_ _next time,_ before he loses himself in reliving that experience. It takes incredibly little after that. Sam sits back on his haunches and goes back to pleasuring himself right there, in front of Dean’s feet, gaze flickering between Dean’s cock and his eyes. Neither of his calloused hands stop the jerk-squeeze-screw motion and before long, Dean’s free-falling into his orgasm with the force of a freight train.

He comes on his brother’s face (fucker, he did manage to coax Dean into a facial), which is so wrong and filthy and delicious that he feels his very soul leaking out of his cock from the pleasure of it. He moans and Sam gasps in reply, then falls forward and smashes into Dean’s inner thigh, bites him there. Dean yelps and pushes at his shoulder to get him off, finds it shaking under his hand. When Sam lets go of his leg and scrambles up to an unsteady stand, there’re globs of whiteness all over his face, torso, shoulder and even in his hair, and his huge cock is softening between his legs. The knobs of his knees are red and there is an almost delirious shine in his hazel-green eyes. (Means Dean was good enough that Sam reached another plane of existence. Awesome.) He’s debauched and owned so thoroughly that a carnal smugness settles in Dean’s stomach and he gives himself a mental pat on the back. (Doesn’t mean his leg isn’t throbbing in the shape of his brother’s teeth.)

“Dude, did you just -” _...bite me?_

“Shut up.” Sam pants and laughs, such a happy sound that it feels like sunshine when it bounces off the walls. He moves under the shower head again and makes quick work of his body, washes off the evidence of their wickedness, then gathers Dean close enough to kiss. He tastes coppery and saccharine - he must have bitten his tongue too somewhere along the way. Boneless satisfaction crawls up Dean’s limbs and makes his body and mind equally sluggish as they make out under the cooling spray of water. Sam presses open-mouthed kisses to his cheeks, almost literally eating his face, and mumbles nonsense about freckles and the colour green into the hollow of Dean’s throat. He’s excessively sweet and Dean lov… Dean finds it nice to hold him. He traces the curve of his spine and scratches the small of his back and tells him he’s everything the best way he can, with his touch.

Sam folds him into a bear hug (shit, when did he get so strong?) and licks the shell of his ear. “Want you to fuck me.” He murmurs and Dean chokes on his own saliva.

 _“Now?”_ They’ve just had an earth-shattering orgasm and he’s asking for seconds?

Sam shrugs. He’s goading Dean, but fuck if it isn’t working. “As long as you can get it up again, old man.”

Dean gives him a hard stare, then shuts off the shower. They’re moving this to the mattress, right the fuck now. “Little bitch.” He growls into Sam’s mouth and they stop talking for a while after that.

 

An impressive show of sexual prowess (on Dean’s part) and some begging (courtesy of Sam) later, they are lying on their backs, squished together in the too small bed. Sam has put his boxers and cozy sleepshirt on, because he claims Dean’s gonna hog the blanket and drool on his shoulder (lies, big, fat lies), but Dean is proudly keeping to his birthday suit.

“Holy shit.” He wheezes and wipes the sweat off his forehead. “Thought we couldn’t do that anymore.”

“Yeah.” Sam sighs. (Not that mouthy now, huh?)

“Guess I still got it. Can still fuck you speechless.”

Sam smacks his chest with the back of his hand. He leaves it there and next thing Dean knows, he’s sliding his own fingers into the places between Sam’s and pulling their joined hands over his racing heart (that’s how it’s comfortable, obviously, no other reason). It’s strangely calming. He breathes in the scent of Sam’s hair (which is soaking the pillow, by the way) and thinks he’s falling asleep. His brain must be fried, though (the only logical explanation), because five seconds later he finds himself pressing kisses to the bumps of Sam’s knuckles (and not suggestive, sucking kisses either, but those chaste, sappy ones that are fucking embarrassing). He waits for Sam to use the grand opportunity for a smartass remark, but he doesn’t even move, and Dean realises with a jolt that he’s already dozing. It makes him frown. It takes a moment to grasp what’s bugging him - usually, Sam’s awake enough to speak to him for a little bit or they both conk out immediately, but now he’s the only one alert and… damn, he misses the sweet-talk (Jesus, he has turned into a girl, wanting to discuss feelings and shit after sex, this is the real apocalypse).

“Sammy?” He whispers and turns onto his side, noses along Sam’s jaw.

“Hm?” Sam cracks open one of his eyes, then closes it almost immediately, the bastard. He’s so fucking content and sleepy while Dean’s struggling with… something that’s kinda pushing at his chest from the inside and that’s just no fair. Sam should be helping him out. Hell, Sam should be the one doing this. It’s a goddamn routine.

He has the words on the tip of his tongue, but the air catches in his throat and he has to swallow, instead of saying what’s on his mind for once (he’s not sure where to even start). He wonders if he’ll ever be able to do that. It feels a bit like failure or inadequacy, because this stuff seems easy and natural for other people, even Jack, and he has the most fucked up background imaginable. It’s only Dean who’s got hang ups the size of the moon about this. He presses his palm to the unicorn shirt (Sam’s chest rising and falling like waves) and bats away the hand that tries to go for his hair (still not a dog to pet).

“I…” That’s all he manages, without any idea how he would have continued if he could. I’m happy? I will sleep until noon? I have a bitemark the size of Alaska on my thigh?

Sam smiles nonetheless (he does it either because he understands or because he is high as a kite) and lets out a soft snuffling sound. “Love you.”

And Dean should go see a doctor or a psychic or something, because that should not give him such a physical, visceral sense of relief, but it does. It does, and like melting, he eases into the Dean-shaped nook under Sam’s arm (his place) and closes his eyes. All is well.

 

 


	2. Tails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Features: fighting, jealousy, drinking, public sex, the Impala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here's the second part. I hope it turned out well and you will have some fun reading it. Tell me if you did. :)
> 
> Warning: Someone is going to be very drunk during the sex scene. Don't read if that bothers you.

 

For all his bragging, Dean isn't too foolhardy when it comes to sex. He uses condoms with his hookups (especially after the amazon fiasco), never sleeps over and makes sure to keep his guard up enough to notice if something was amiss. Yes, he has a bazillion of kinks he can get off to, either in fantasy or reality (including _joining the mile high club,_ even though he is terrified of planes), but most of his wilder experimentation has been with one person (Sam), because he wouldn't trust anyone else to do it with. He did score more women (and men) than Sam is entirely happy with, but he's too closed off to share the precious moments with anyone else. And that's what matters in the end. Because sure, Dean can go screw some desperate barfly in Hooker, Oklahoma ( _c’mon, Sammy, gotta embrace the day_ ), but who else’s gonna act out a crappy fanfiction with him in the middle of the night? ( _You are supposed to be a demon, Sam, do it harder._ ) Absolutely no one else.

So Sam is not jealous. He is not hurt and neither is he feeling belligerent. He had a bad night, is all, and when that happens, he gets prickly as fuck, as Dean so eloquently put it. If Dean went out to a bar last night, then so be it, his business. Sam doesn’t care whether he got some or just hustled for a bit. He doesn’t care if he went home with some nameless slut. Not like he left Sam hanging, not at all. His right hand’s working just fine.

Sam is not jealous. But, you know, Cas is back, truly alive and well and... he disrupts things. Dean is equal parts over the moon (which is great) and all of a sudden, annoyingly secretive (which is not so much). He avoids getting involved in “dumb relationship stuff” as much as he can. Also, he has taken to sleeping back in his own bed and in case that wasn’t enough, in the past few days, he didn’t let Sam utter more than a peep when they were actually doing the dirty, lest his salacious moans disturbed pure, tired little Cas. ( _You are too loud, keep it the fuck down, just for this once._ ) Even though Cas reportedly doesn’t sleep. And he’s obviously aware of all their filthy sins. (He has _eyes,_ for God’s sake.) Sam tried convincing his brother that there’s no need for hiding more than usual, but it's falling on deaf ears. To sum it up, Dean is acting skittish, they didn't have good sex since they tried out Sam's paraphilia and last night, Dean went out to play manwhore again. Sam is not jealous. No, he’s royally pissed. At Dean’s coping mechanisms and their fucked up lives. These phases come and go in their relationship, it's kind of a package deal when you are dating your brother. Every now and then, it’s bound to come up and tear into your soul with sharp fangs of guilt and self-hatred. If it hits Sam, he runs. If it hits Dean, well - something like this happens. He will come around, eventually. But that doesn’t mean Sam has to like it or grit his teeth through this stage.

He is viciously butchering his scrambled eggs at the dining table (with a silent angel and their adoptive nephilim) when the traitorous fucker finally shows up. He has dark circles under his eyes, but he dares look as cocky as ever. He sits across Sam and tries stealing a bit of his breakfast with a bare hand. Sam stabs him with his fork. Not too hard, but enough that Dean hisses and jerks back into his seat.

“Good fucking morning to you too.” He bites out and goes to get his own food.

Cas gives Sam a _Look._ His eyes are etheral blue, almost flashing that instense angelic gleam, but not so much in anger, more in curiosity. He wants to know what’s up. Well, he can go ask his buddy, Mr. Pieface because Sam is not in the mood for friendly chats.

“Sam, have you read the Lord of the Flies?” Jack pipes up and Sam feels a muscle ticking in his jaw.

He forces it to relax and replies in his normal voice (polished on crying witnesses). “Yes. I wrote a paper about the theme of savagery and civilisation in Cold War literature when I was a sophomore in high school.”

Dean comes back to the table, face stuffed full with something greasy he unearthed from their fridge. “He got a B.”

Sam goes livid at the sheer audacity. You don’t tease your partner when the two of you are fighting. “It was a B+, jerk. And I got that only because you let my fucking teacher blow you the night before, then dumped her ass!”

Dean gapes. “I didn’t know she was your teacher! She was the only single woman at the bar. And I dumped her ‘cause I didn’t wanna leave you all alone at that rundown shack.”

“Yeah, sure, because you are so considerate.” Sam is trying to rein it in, but his mouth just keeps dripping venom. “How many times have you left me alone, worried and afraid and… and pining after your stupid face?”

“The hell are you talking about, never! I went away _only_ when Dad was there too.”

Sam lets out a dark laugh. He is not exactly proud of it. “You actually thought he stayed with me?”

That seems to throw his brother for a loop. He falls silent for a second, then starts again, much more quietly. “What? What are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” In the periphery of his vision, he notices that Cas is studying their interaction with interest, as if he was watching a documentary. Sam almost gives him a scathing remark too, but the look on Dean’s face turns his attention back to its original target.

“It does. I would have never left you like that.”

“Oh really?” Sam raises his eyebrows and purses his lips, eyes murderous. “Where have you been last night?” He hears Castiel whispering to Jack ( _That is something called a bitchface. It is not deadly, but it can sting when you are a human)._

“Last… last night?”

“Yes.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking contrite. “I, uh, I played pool at the O’Malley’s, a place an hour from here. Hustled a couple of bucks.”

Sure. And he needed to go to another town for that. Needed to stay out almost the whole night, too. “You know what, Dean? I’m fucking done with you for today. We will talk tomorrow.”

“Sammy, don’t be -”

Dean starts grovelling, but Sam doesn’t want to hear it. He storms into his room and locks the door, bitter and absolutely miserable.

 

 

That night, he goes out to a bar too. He didn’t check if Dean went on a skirt-hunt again or not (he did hover at the door of his room for five minutes, but it’s a question of pride, he won’t apologise). He chooses the bar Dean mentioned, strictly out of spite, and he takes the Impala (he is going to get hell for that one, but whatever). In his plans, he is going to get smashed and then have a no strings attached sex marathon with someone whom Dean would hate. It’s simple, clear and effective in re-establishing that these things go both ways. If Sam has to put up with Dean’s flings, then it has to be true the other way around as well. But.

But he needs to get very, very drunk to do that. Because, deny it as he may, his dick has turned into a de facto compass that only points at his brother as its north. Other people aren’t quite making it stand at attention. So he tosses back shot after shot until his vision is getting hazy at the edges and the guy at the end of the bar has climbed up from a solid 6 to about 8 and a half-ish. The place is packed, which is a bit surprising and also means more fish to choose from, but Sam might have found his partner of the night already, because the man stands up, comes over with a syrupy smile and sticks out a hand.

“Well, well, well, hello. I’m Trent.” Sam is confused. Why does he need all those interjections? And seriously, _Trent_? Sounds like a douche, especially with those gaudy clothes he is wearing. No matter, he is athletic enough to keep up for a while tonight. Certainly not as long as… other people, but he will do.

“Sam.” They shake. Douche’s hand is soft, clammy and has none of Dean’s callouses. Sam has the sudden urge to wipe his palm until it’s raw and tender.

“Well, Sam -” God, is he going to use that word every time his mouth opens? Sam will have to gag him before anything else happens between them. “- you look great and all, but do you know what would look _stunning_ on your curves? Me.”

Whoa, that’s pathetic. Sam rolls his eyes. Curves, really? He is like a roadblock. All his curves went into his face and they are about gone now. (And maybe his ass. But this idiot won’t see any of _those_ curves, period.) “You’re an idiot. I’m not intr’sted.”

Shit. All those drinks are going to his head. It feels like a curtain of mist falling on his brain. He turns away from Douche What’s-his-name and gulps down what’s still in the glass in front of him. Whatevs. This idea was a mistake. He’s not gonna fuck anyone. He will just… go sit in Baby and call Cas. (Not Dean, hell no, he would tear him a new one.) Cas is nice. And he is reeeeal strong. He can maneuver Sam into the Bunker without anyone else noticing.

“Oh no, you are not turning me off like that. You flirted, now own up to it. My cock ain’t gonna suck itself.” The rude guy grabs Sam’s elbow. It is a capital mistake that he’ll regret for a long time.

Sam is tensing up to clock him in the jaw when suddenly, there’s another, much firmer grip on his arm and the scent of leather, sage and cherry pie hits Sam’s nose. He gets a wave of relief so strong he lets out a sigh.

“Get. The fuck. Away. From my boyfriend.” Dean growls at Douche, who is whimpering in pain, eyes brimming with tears. It takes Sam a blink or two to realise that Dean is grinding his steel toe boot into the unfortunate man’s white converse sneaker, most likely crushing the life out of his toes. He imagines he hears the crunching of bones.

“Yes, yes, of course, sorry, oh God, all yours, oh shit” The guy cries, releasing his hold.

Sam smiles and lists to the side a little, to feel Dean’s warmth against his torso. “Boyfriend?” He inquires, kinda happy. It has just occured to him. The word has a nice lilt. Esp’cially when Dean is all growly and stereotypical about it.

Dean’s green eyes turn to stare at him. They are disapproving, so Sam decides he doesn’t like them. It lasts for three seconds, then he is back to trying to count the lashes around them. Meanwhile, Douche-whose-name-Sam-forgot wrenches his foot out from under Dean’s and scampers away, limping.

“I’m so mad at you right now.” Dean says, but it sound more like… something. Something guilty, but relieved. And Sam hates that sound ‘cause most of the times it means _he_ is the one at fault, and now it reminds him of their miserable breakfast. He has to run.

He stands, wobbles, wrestles his brother off himself and shoulders his way into a booth. He folds himself into its most hidden corner and sulks. He is not sure why. Dean follows him (of course) and starts checking him for injuries. Tearing his jacket off, running his hands over Sam’s arms and chest. Which is ridiculous, since Sam could have fought that guy off in his sleep. He can take care of himself.

“Ridiculous. I’m much stronger than ‘im.” That’s a success. He let Dean know how unnecessary his post-rescue routine is.

“Dude, you are trashed. Means you have no say in how ridiculous I am.”

Sam feels incredibly sad after that. He has no say. No say in anything. He is unwanted. Just some stupid baggage. “S’ry, Dean.” He sniffs. “You can go back to chatting up the girls.”

Dean smoothes a hand down along his front, from neckline to hips. “You are the dumbest genius I’ve ever met. I’ve come to take you home. Cas told me you went out to find trouble.”

“He said that?”

“Not exactly. Now, give me the keys. I’ll come back for the other car tomorrow.”

“Don’t wanna bother you. Find yourself a pr’tty girl and leave me alone.” Sam slurs and shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Like yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Dean frowns, hand still stubbornly pressed to Sam’s chest. “Oh, you think - I wasn’t - damn you, I wasn’t cheating on you.”

“’S okay.” It really is. Sam realises he has already begun to let it go, now that Dean gets it. He’s not a naive teenager after all. He can handle an open relationship. “Not ‘xclusive.”

“What?” Dean is cute when he’s indignant. “Of course we are exclusive, you stupid mutt.”

“Nuh. You. Took that girl.” Fuck, why is it so hard to say… thingies? “The blonde one. Oklahoma.”

“I took her _home,_ I told you. She was fucking jailbait, man! At least give me some credit.”

Huh. He did. Yes, he remembers now. Dean had a rant about irresponsible parents, Sam said something about Dad and Dean stalked out again. He said he slept in the car, but Sam didn’t believe it… Maybe he was telling the truth?

“Show me.” He blurts out, not quite sure where he wants to go with that. What he knows is simple: his dick is up to business ever since Dean called him something other than his name or an insult.

“What?”

“Show me you want me.”

Except, Sam doesn’t wait him out, because he is sort of swaying and the motion takes him into Dean’s space, which is a very comfortable space and he doesn’t wanna leave it. His mouth finds his brother’s in semi-automatic precision and he is sucking and nibbling on Dean’s bottom lip in two seconds flat. Dean, for his part, is patient enough to let Sam take his fill before cupping the back of his head and plunging in, licking around. The kiss tastes like pie, like Dean always does, and there’s some whiskey too, but that might be Sam’s imagination. Dean has two days’ worth of stubble and Sam wants to rub his face all over it and touch its stinging planes with his tongue. He moans and grabs Dean’s jaw, to pull him closer or to feel it move, he doesn’t know.

“More.” He sighs into the damp heat pressing to his lips and puts Dean’s hand on his crotch. They are making out like a pair of horny teenagers, but he is too drunk for shame. “More, want more.”

“Okay, let’s go back to the car -” Dean starts, moving away, but Sam pulls him back down

“No. Right here.”

Dean gives him a measured look. “We are in public.”

“We did my fantasy. Want yours now.”

“You would regret it, come morning.”

Sam feels like he would not. He pulls a coin out of his pocket and holds it up with a drooping grin. “Head - you do whatever. Tails - you jerk me off.”

Sam tosses the coin (it looks like he’s simply throwing it away, but that’s just a trick of the lights). It rolls away, into the throngs of people mingling around the place. Sam squints after it for a moment, then turns back to Dean and tries to kiss him again. He aims for his lips but somehow lands on his chin. It doesn’t bother him though, he just keeps mouthing at whichever patch of skin he gets at and sucks the salty-sweetness off until that’s all he tastes on his tongue. Dean sighs, but as Sam keeps kissing him and grinding his hips up into Dean’s limp hand, he starts to lose some of the tension in his body and slowly, his fingers begin moving on their own. They unbutton Sam’s trousers and slip inside, find the flap in his boxers and stroke him through that. Sam is tempted to giggle in glee. He knows his brother wants this, he has told him so several times before. But sometimes he needs a little push to get anything for himself. (And he might be concerned about Sam being drunk. Perhaps, that’s a turnoff. Sam thinks about that, then dismisses it because it’s _depressing._ )

“Alright, nympho.” Dean whispers into his ear and drapes Sam’s jacket over Sam’s lap. “Keep quiet.”

“Hm” Sam kisses Dean’s neck and nuzzles him there, breathes him in. Dean pulls him out of his underwear and smears the sticky droplets of precome over his palm. His fist curls around Sam’s cock and tugs in the familiar rhythm they’ve established years ago. Sam lets his eyes fall shut and loses himself in the sensation of that wet slip-slide. “Big brother. Taking care of me.”

Dean lets out a noise of protest, but his pulse is speeding up, Sam can feel it against his lips. “Christ. Don’t call me that.”

“Turns you on.”

Dean swallows, but they are way past denying that. “Yeah.” He presses his thumb to the crown of Sam’s cock in retaliation, makes Sam whimper. “Glad you can get it up.”

Sam bites the juncture of his neck, because it’s right there and he wants to make him shut up before he delves deeper into dirty talk. (You see, he’s not very good. He’s too crass and his mind takes some frankly ludicrous paths.) But Sam is a little drunk and he underestimates the strength of his jaw, so when he pulls back, Dean has an angry red mark above his collar.

“Sometimes I think you must be half-vampire.” Dean groans and his hand speeds up. He is flushed and aroused, though, so Sam doesn’t take his words to heart. “Last time my thigh, now my neck… Do I need to give you a muzzle?”

“Please stop.” Sam whines. It’s not his fault that Dean’s body looks delicious. It’s not his fault that he is addicted to it. He sees Dean grinding the heel of his palm against his own groin and constantly scanning the bar. He loves this, Sam realises. Getting Sam off in front of this many people even if they don’t see it, staking claim… Maybe they should try out a sex club next time. Dean changes his pumps into short, fast jerks and twists his grip on the downstrokes, pushing Sam’s buttons one after the other. He wants to make him come so hard he can’t even twitch for the rest of the night.

“Check out those guys in the corner, Sammy.” He dips his tongue into Sam’s panting mouth. “Think they can see your big cock in my hand? See how desperate you are to come?”

Sam knows they can’t (unless they are monsters with X-ray eyes), but Dean’s dirty talk is surprisingly effective when you are drunk off your ass. The thugs Dean mentioned are staring at them menacingly, dark shimmers in their eyes. Sam promptly decides it’s his duty to scare them off, since Dean is _occupied._ So he pulls the 13 inch survival knife out of Dean’s belt and puts it on the table. The guys share indecisive glances - not scary enough, fine. Sam can do better. He can totally slice this table in half with it. He can do it with his _mind._ Maybe. He unsheats the knife and - after a brief consideration of its cleanliness - licks the blade, all the while giving the men a drunken stare. Their expressions are one of horror now. They might think Sam is a psycho. That seems funny, so Sam chuckles and turns to Dean to share the joke. But Dean is not looking at him. He is ogling the knife Sam still has in his grip, the pupils of his green eyes dilated. Lustful, Sam’s brain supplies. It’s no surprise that Sam handling deadly, vaguely fallic-shaped weapons turns him on, but it’s a nice effect nonetheless.

“Gonna come, Dee.” He sighs, satisfied. Dean blinks, nods and kisses him again. Sam feels the turning point approaching and then tipping over almost seamlessly into some sort of cloudy bliss and he has to grip Dean’s thigh to stay conscious. That’s a new one. Drunk as he is, his orgasm feels like a nice, steady flow, not the usual build-up and rushing pleasure. It seems to just take over him, as if he missed the steps up to the plateau. He pants and closes his eyes until he’s drifting. It’s sloppy and tingling. And exquiz - equiti - exquisite. He kinda knows Dean is getting himself off too, but he can’t spare any of his jumbled thoughts for that. There’s only Dean’s hand and Dean’s mouth and Dean’s knee pressing against him and it is sooo good -

“Sam, we gotta roll now. Bouncer’s coming this way.”

Dean milks the last drops out and tucks him back into his boxers in record time. He fixes Sam’s trousers, wipes his palm on the fabric, then picks up the jacket. Sam grimaces. He is still dizzy from the aftershocks and his clothes look gross. They are sticky and come-smeared all over. And he doesn’t like damp underwear.

“I don’t like it either, dude, but you seriously gotta get yourself together, ‘cause I can’t haul your drunk ass and beat up a bunch of guys at the same time. Come on, Sam.”

They half-stumble, half-crawl out of the booth and hurry towards the back door. Sam is too slow, though, and Dean can’t steady all his 200 pounds well enough. (Because the floor is constructed to tilt left and right, and it’s hard not to fall.) The lone bouncer is catching up to them when they are almost at the exit and Sam has a fleeting thought about how funny it would be if Cas had to bust them out of arrest for public indecency. He almost stops because he sure as hell can’t run and the guy is going to reach them anyway, but then Dean pushes him forward with both hands on his back, takes a step away from the door and punches one of the drunks that stared at them. In the fight that follows, Dean pisses off about three more people (plus the bouncer) and manages to make it so that they go against each other. Half of the place are throwing fists now and Sam is just standing by the half-open door, smiling dopily as Dean kicks a man twice his size back into the crowd and slips out of the conflict without anyone noticing.

“Let’s go.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, they are on their way home and Dean is laughing his happy laugh even though the knuckles of his right hand are bloody. “God, I came in my pants. And now I’m hard again.” He beams at Sam and adjusts the radio until the music is barely louder than Baby’s purring engine. “I should get you drunk more often, Sam.”

Sam has no idea if he agrees with that or not. It’s kinda fuzzy. But he feels safe. So safe. The darkness of this no man’s land envelopes them and now that the excitement is over, he is getting sleepy. The window looks too cold and hard. Sam frowns at it, then scoots all the way over to Dean’s side and rests his head on his brother’s shoulder. They are on a nice stretch of straight, empty road and it must be that fact that prompts Dean to humor him and slide his right arm around Sam’s shoulders. He traces Sam’s cheekbone with his thumb.

“Can’t believe you licked my knife. You’re lucky I always keep my stuff clean. I’d have had to give you a lockjaw shot otherwise.”

“Tasted bad. Metallic.” Ah. Metallic-ah. Metal-lick-ah. Sam giggles and sticks his finger through a hole in Dean’s ratty jeans, just above his knee. It gets kinda stuck, so he leaves his hand there. Dean’s thigh is warm.

“I bet.” Dean snorts and strokes his temple, then starts playing with the locks of hair tucked behind his ear. “You are gonna hate me tomorrow.”

“No hate. I love you.” Sam pouts, then rubs his nose against his brother’s chest, mumbling. “Lovelovelove.”

“Ugh, I’m gonna throw up.” Dean gags, but Sam knows it’s fake. He knows _everything._ Every thing. All of them. About Dean. “And I take it back. I have to keep you sober for the rest of our lives.”

“Wish you said it back.”

“No need to.” Dean pauses for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The radio drones on, plays some slow mullet rock about roadtrips. It lulls Sam into a dream-like doze. He sort of forgets what they were talking about. Then Dean kisses his forehead. “You know how I feel, baby.”

“‘M not a baby.”

“I was talking to my car.”

Sam closes his eyes and smiles for no reason. “Yeah, yeah.”

“She’s my one and only. You just have to suck it up.”

“We can share you.”

Dean chuckles, low and intimate. “I can work with that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a vivid picture of Sam licking a knife. I'm sure most of you know [this gif](https://tenor.com/view/supernatural-sam-winchester-knife-lick-licking-gif-10681499).


End file.
